


i'm not that nice ( i'm mean and i'm evil )

by wholeshebangs



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy is from Tennessee and lives in a farm, Child Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Horror, I don't know anything about Tennessee, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Steve Has Issues, Suspense, This is a creepy farm AU, This will definitely contain murder at some point, Violence, flayed!Steve, flayed!billy, lots of problematic behavior, pls don't fact check me, some really gross raw meat eating, tags will continue to change as the story progresses, this has dead animals in it ): sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27801304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeshebangs/pseuds/wholeshebangs
Summary: First time he dreams, he’s seventeen, and there’s some other kid in the void with him.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 24
Kudos: 43





	1. it's permanently night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic idea I’ve had planned for longer than two years. I finally found the inspiration to get it out there. There’s no specific way I want this to end. We’re both gonna have to see how it goes.
> 
> I wanted to get this out of my chest before I go on a long internet break for a few months. Will this have a happy ending? Yes. Will it be a sweet, cute ending? No. I’m a big fan of suspense and horror. This is a flayed boys au. You know exactly what that means.
> 
> I don’t have an English major, or a beta. Pls bear with me.
> 
> TW: for the explicit death of an animal in this one chapter. You'll know when it's coming tho. It's easy to skip over, promise!

Billy never dreams. 

There’s nothing on the other side when he closes his eyes. Only darkness. Deep, deep darkness. People have wished him sweet dreams in the past - but there’s nothing to savor out there. Nothing sweet. 

When his eyelids flutter shut and all consciousness ceases, it’s just him, in that empty void. In a different state of awareness. Where time is endless, and the stillness is cold. 

He never falls from a ten-story building. Never dreams of his teeth falling out. When he falls asleep, he’s somewhere lonely. He’ll stand there, alone, until he’s sucked away from that place. Until it’s the next day and he has chores to do. 

He told Miss Brennan once, his 6th grade teacher. She giggled. _You probably just don’t remember, sweetheart._

But he remembers. The silence is too unnerving to forget. 

He wishes he could dream. 

* * *

Billy hates Dad’s cooking. Especially his chicken stock. He puts in too many onions. Too many bay leaves. The stock turns out greasy and bitter. Never flavored enough. 

He stares at the thin, pale fingers peeking over the broth and grimaces. Chicken feet, with sharp, yellow nails. It’s gross. So gross. It makes Billy lose his appetite instead. 

But Dad doesn’t like that, when he doesn’t eat up. 

“Eat.” 

Billy doesn’t look up. He stirs around the beans, then nibbles at those. He’s scared of what he might find in Dad’s eyes. Dad’s cold, vacant eyes. 

“Billy.” 

There’s a warning there; a threat. It makes Billy’s heart flutter into a race. 

He looks up, finds Dad’s hard gaze boring right into him, and sees the bored disappointment. His old man is tired of him. Tired of dealing with his bullshit. 

“Sorry,” Billy mumbles, curls in on himself, makes himself smaller. It gives him bad posture. “I just.” 

Dad’s still. So still. “Just?” 

“Don’t like chicken feet.” 

There’s silence first. Deadly silence. Before Dad sets his spoon down on the table. He makes the chair creak something ugly when he pushes away from his plate and walks past Billy. Leaves the boy untouched. 

Billy looks over his shoulder and watches Dad grab his coat from the hanger near the door. Feels like he’s fucked up. Big time. Because this doesn’t feel right. He’s unfamiliar with this kind of punishment. Silence. He doesn’t like silence. It reminds him of the void in his mind when he sleeps. 

Dad doesn’t spare him a glance. Just goes, “We’re checking the traps. C’mon.” 

Billy scrambles to his feet as Dad steps outside into the misty, November air. Grabs a hunting knife from the counter first thing. Knows they’re heading out to check the rabbit traps along the vast growth of trees. They leave their plates on the table, still warm. It’s the first time Dad has let him skip a meal. 

A small part of him clings to hope. To the idea that maybe Dad will fix him up something better. Something that’s not gross like chicken feet. He thinks _maybe_ Dad will be kind to him. That’s all he wants most days. For Dad to be kind. Kind like other parents. 

They walk across the grassy plain, away from home. Away from the barn. 

The ground gets muddier as they go. Billy’s boots get dirtier along the way. It rains a lot in November. Too much. The sky is grey at this time of the day. Lifeless. 

The woods are quiet. Silent. Billy doesn’t like silence. 

They stop at the first trap, but it remains in place. Untouched. Dad huffs something under his breath and keeps walking. Billy follows, growing sick with anxiety. 

The second trap is their winner, a sling foot trap with a live rabbit tied around its hind legs. It breathes fast, nervous. Beady eyes steady. Almost like it knows. Billy feels sorry for it. But says nothing. Dad doesn’t like that. When he coos at the animals. Makes him weak. 

“Untie it.” 

Billy does as he’s ordered. He’s done this before. 

This one doesn’t put much of a fight. If you handle them with care, they sometimes don’t struggle at all. Its beating heart goes a mile a minute. Feels like it matches Billy’s. Maybe they’re on the same page. Maybe the rabbit gets it. 

When he turns to Dad, holding the poor, fragile thing by the legs, there’s nowhere to run. 

“Kill it.” 

Billy feels a cold chill travel through his limbs. His mouth goes dry and sour. His chest starts hurting. This isn’t right.   
  
“But… you always do it.” 

Dad narrows his eyes. “You’re old enough now, son.” 

Billy immediately regrets not eating Dad’s bitter chicken stock. He wants to tell Dad he’s sorry. That he’s just a kid. That he didn’t mean it. He’ll eat it all when they get back home. He didn’t mean to be picky. Picky like the kids at school who get to choose what they want for lunch. He’s not spoiled like them. He’s sorry. Won’t do it again. 

His face is wet when he comes back to himself. Tears pooling at the brim of his eyes and sliding down his tinted cheeks. His hands shake, and the rabbit stares right at him, nostrils flaring. It knows. 

And Dad - his eyes are empty. There’s nothing in them. Like that void in Billy’s mind every night. 

“Please, Dad. I don’t want to. I - I’ll eat, I promise —” 

“You’re a grown man, Billy,” Dad’s voice is sweet, but not in the genuine way. “Gotta’ learn how to work, like a farmhand. You want to help me more, don’t you, son?” 

Billy’s only twelve. 

He cries and sobs. But he nods. Eagerly. Yes, Dad. Billy wants to be useful. Billy wants you to be proud. To be kind to him. 

So he strikes the rabbit hard between the ears. It goes limp, but it still breathes. It’s not dead. Just unconscious. Doesn’t feel a thing. When Billy twists its neck. 

He can feel the bile rising in his throat. He wasn’t ready to do that. He doesn’t want to be a man. He just wants to be a kid. 

And when Dad hums, proud - proud of him, just when Billy thinks it’s over, he orders, “Skin it. Start at the base of the neck —” 

Billy hiccups loud and wet. “Dad —” 

“Don’t make me ask twice. You don’t want me to ask twice.” 

He’s right. Billy doesn’t want that. Wouldn’t want that. He doesn’t want to find out what would happen after, if he did. 

But the skinning is messy. He’s got clumsy hands. Hasn’t had a day's worth of practice. 

And his bloody hands - the blood makes it all that much harder to bear. 

When the skin is off, he stares at the rabbit's lifeless eyes. He wants to comfort it, tell it he's sorry. He seizes the pink muscles and the white, exposed fat of its legs and feels wrong all over. Like he should run and scream for help. 

He doesn't. 

Dad knows he wouldn't. That he's a coward like that. There's nowhere else for Billy to go. No one else would take an undisciplined child like him. 

Once Billy's numb. Numb and empty. Not there. Dad speaks up. 

"Eat it." 

  


* * *

  


Billy never dreams. But after his first taste of blood, the void feels less empty. 

There’s a lot of anger and regret vibrating in the broad nothingness of this place. Like static. Ants under his skin. He thinks a lot about Neil here. The sharp coppery taste of blood is still on his tongue. So strong he wants to fucking gag. Wants to scrape the cells off his mouth. 

His thoughts become too twisted for a kid his age. They bounce off the darkness surrounding him. Feeding the pent-up rage within his mind. Until he’s restless. Can’t sleep. And when he does, he’s here, angry and broken. 

It doesn’t feel like he’s a kid anymore. Neil took that away from him. 

* * *

  


_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The sounds come from far away. Echoes of the Doppler effect. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Closer, suddenly. Right in his ears. 

Billy’s eyes snap open. There’s nothing to take in. He’s alone in his room. The corners are dark, the space beside his bed lit dimly by the moonlight seeping through his window. The air is still. His room, quiet. And then — 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

He shifts on the bed, twists his neck, and glances up at the window. 

The glass is icy. Frosted by the cold temperatures of the season. There’s nothing to see. Only the flat landscape that surrounds the house. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

He _hears_ it. Right there, on the glass. But - there’s nothing to see. 

Against his better judgement, Billy slides his feet off the bed, down to the cold, wooden floor. Sticks his hands underneath his armpits, shuffles closer, quietly, to keep the house from creaking. From telling Neil he’s awake. 

Looks out the window. 

Nothing to see. The trees sway far in the distance. The gentle breeze hums. The barn animals are asleep. He should be, too. 

_Open it._

Billy breathes heavy. In and out. He’s scared. He should just go back to bed. 

_Open it_ _._

He does, even when that’s not him. 

A gust of icy wind hits him right across the face, twists around his room, like a tornado. And then it’s over. It’s quiet again, so quiet his ears start ringing. 

He slams the window shut. 

  


* * *

  


Billy’s fourteen the first time Neil beats him within an inch of his life. 

One of the cows went missing, and the next morning Billy finds her dead ten minutes away from the barn. There’s an ugly gap in her stomach where her guts should be. Mauled. Such an awful way to go. 

She’s covered in flies, and Billy stands there for a few minutes. Withstanding the smell of rotten flesh. He takes a moment to mourn her loss, in silence. Wondering what got her. Jesse was a sweet girl. Didn’t deserve to go out like that. 

He reports back to Neil and it all goes downhill from there. Worthless son. Useless scum. First a smack. Then a punch. There’s screaming so deafening it helps Billy to tune it all out. He doesn’t feel it after a while. He - blacks out? That’s what it felt like. He’s there, and then he’s not there anymore. He’s in that void again, the one he only knows when he lies down. Here, nothing hurts. All is good. 

A sharp breath in and he’s back in his room, bloody and bruised. His breathing is ragged. It stings. He’s holding a wet t-shirt to his face. Doesn’t remember getting all the way here. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Billy ignores it. 

Next morning, for breakfast, after Billy reluctantly sits at the table, face swollen, Neil sets a plate in front of him. 

A slab of raw meat. 

The mere sight of it makes the stomach acid rise in Billy’s throat. 

It smells wrong. Sour. Just a day into spoiling. And Billy knows that’s Jesse. Knows that’s his girl Neil’s serving him on a plate. 

“Eat.” 

Neil sits across from him, bacon and eggs. Orange juice. Grapes on the side. A cruel joke. 

Billy wants to throw up. Feels his stomach twist and coil tight. He tells himself his restraint is only psychological. Neil fucked him up that first time, and can do it again, and again, and again. Cuts of raw meat to remind him of that time he tore into a rabbit’s stomach. To really hit home with the trauma. It’s so fucking hilarious, how broken he is. Maybe he’ll get some sort of foodborne illness from this, have something wipe him out for good. 

It doesn’t happen. He gets sick, belches all that bloody, rotten meat down the toilet. But it doesn’t last. He gets to live in misery another day. 

  


* * *

  


First time he dreams, he’s seventeen, and there’s some other kid in the void with him. 

Billy doesn’t know what to make of it. This isn’t normal. It’s never been. He’s always been alone, with racing thoughts. Thinking about Neil. About how sick he is. 

But there’s someone here with him - someone who seems to be around his age. Doesn’t notice Billy. A boy with brown hair, and sickly pale skin. He’s passed out, on the floor. Asleep. 

Billy comes close and sees the chapped lips, the sunken eyes, the rubber band tight around his arm, the bruised needle hole on the inside of his elbow. 

And then the boy opens his eyes, slow and lazy, and stares right back at him. 

Brown eyes. Empty eyes. Out of it. 

His first dream is some kid shooting heroin. 

Billy _cracks up_ . He really does. Bursts into laughter. Finds it hard to contain. He thought this place meant something - held some kind of secret . All those years thinking it would give him _something_ one day and his first taste is this. Some junkie he’s never seen before. 

Except. 

For a second, kid looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. And there’s fear there, horror. Before he rolls onto his stomach, struggling to get up. To get away. Sobbing, “shut up, please, just shut up,” and some other incoherent nonsense. 

He’s seen Billy. He’s _here_. 

“Wait,” Billy’s voice wavers. This can’t be right. “You see me?” 

“Oh my fuckin’ _god_.” 

“Hey,” He doesn’t think there’s much use trying. To communicate. Kid’s freaking out. Tripping, probably. “Jesus fuck, man. Get a grip.” 

Kid curls up in a sitting position, breathes hard, pulls at his hair. He trains his breathing to a steady rhythm, whispers to himself, going, “you’re alright, Steve. You’re fine,” over and over. Rocks himself a bit. Looks like a nutcase, like that. 

Billy often hears some dreams aren’t supposed to make sense. 

So he just… watches. Stands there. Face blank. 

Waits. Doesn’t count the seconds. The void is timeless. It wouldn’t matter. 

Hears the kid - Steve, say, “he’s not there, just you. He’s not there. It’s all in your head, Steve. Get him outta there. C’mon.” 

And then. 

Billy wakes up in his room. 

_Pushed_ out of that deep darkness, back to reality. 

For the first time, someone wills him out. Just like that. 

It makes him angry. Really angry, and he’s not sure why. Maybe - maybe to him that was _his_ place. His secret. He doesn’t get it. He wants it to make sense. He wants answers because it’s been _years_ and he just — 

Punches the wall next to him so hard he hears his knuckles crack and split. It hurts. Blood runs hot between his fingers, drips on his bed sheets. There’s a small dent on the wooden wall. And he sucks in a breath, holds it. 

After a few minutes, Neil doesn’t come barging into his room. It’s 3 am. The house is dead silent. 

He holds back the need to scream. 

  


* * *

  


Billy’s starting to feel the wisps of the summer heat. The sun is hot out and draws sweat from him in bullets. Gives his skin a healthy sheen, a golden tan. But the humidity messes up his hair. And the heat tires him out faster. It’s hard to stay hydrated, out there. Hard to stay focused. 

They’re having dinner. Normal dinner that he cooked himself. Because he’s in charge of fixing up the food now, thank fucking Christ. And Neil’s grown fat, and comfortable, and lazy. Would rather have Billy pull his weight. 

Billy doesn’t eat meat anymore. Can’t take it. Which is fine by Neil. It just means he has Billy how he wants. Strong on the outside. Weak on the inside. 

He hasn’t had any of Neil’s cooking since he was a kid. Hasn’t had any cuts of raw animal flesh in about a year, either. 

He’s good. He’s behaving. Neil likes that. Cuts him some slack. When Billy works hard, Neil might even reward him. A few bucks, a chance to go to town, a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro. So that he smokes like a man. 

Neil’s usually quiet when they eat. He’s never interested in Billy’s day. Doesn’t need to tell him what to do. Billy knows his chores. Feed the animals, milk the cows and goats, shovel horse shit, trim their hooves, overlook the crops, mow the lawn, weed the plants, gather the eggs, do the laundry - the list never stops. Nothing ever stops for good. One day he’ll do something wrong. He knows it’s only a matter of time before he fucks up. Before Neil grabs him by the throat and chokes the air out of him. 

So, he has to pause when Neil speaks up, “I’m having a colleague over, during the weekend.” 

Neil keeps eating, and Billy just, stares. If he had any balls, he would tell him he didn’t know he had any friends. That only a moron would give him the time of day. 

Instead, he swallows the food in his mouth. “Colleague?” 

Neil hums. Drinks up. Then slowly adds, “He’s bringing his son. He’s staying with us.” 

Billy frowns. “Your colleague?” 

“His son.” 

Billy doesn’t know what to make of that. Stops eating altogether. When Neil eyes his plate, Billy feels obligated to poke and play with what’s served up on the plate. Pretend he’s still hungry. “Why?” 

“Set him straight,” Neil says, like it’s obvious. Like it should be, to Billy. Who’s been set straight plenty of times. Who’s had discipline beaten into him and obedience force fed to him. _Set him straight_. As if Neil weren’t aware of how fucked up he is, on the inside. Sometimes Billy thinks he doesn’t know. That Neil genuinely thinks he’s a good parent. 

This is fucking unbelievable. 

“Hasn’t worked a day in his life. Kids like that, they don’t go far,” Neil leans back, rubs his full belly. He’s bloated and disgusting. “His father spoke to me about him. He’s a lost case. But we’ll get paid plenty.” 

We. 

Like Billy’s in on it. 

It’s - there’s just something real fucked up about that, isn’t there? 

Billy wants to know what that kid did that was so, so bad it warrants a daily beating from Neil. Or maybe Neil has different plans. Raw meat. Bloody meat. To break the mind first. Make sure the damage goes deep. So deep he’ll never be able to scrub it off or puke it out. 

It’s messed him up already. Sometimes Billy is consumed by the irrational fear that there’s something growing inside of him. A monster made of flesh. And Neil knows it too. Keeps feeding him all those chunks to keep it alive. 

Billy wants to reach that kid somehow. Tell him to run, run for it. Far away and don’t look back. 

“Set up the spare bedroom. And wash the sheets.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

  


* * *

  


Neil’s colleague arrives Friday. 1 o’clock. Sharp. 

Billy’s pitching hay near the barn when he hears the purring of an engine, coming all the way from the horizon, the farthest his eyes can reach from here. 

He stops to watch the car that’s fast approaching, lifting all the dust from the dirt road into the air. A Vantage Volante, no less. It’s gotta be someone made of money. No wonder Neil’s been feeling greedy. Billy didn’t know Neil had any rich friends. 

The car slows down as it pulls into their driveway, not too far from where Billy is standing. Out comes a tall man in a _suit_. Well put together. Salt and pepper hair. Neil hasn’t come out of the house to receive their guest yet. The new meat. 

The stranger turns to look around, then at him, and pauses, squints real hard. 

Something in the man’s face shifts and Billy can immediately tell it’s a look of recognition. Someone who’s seen him before. But Billy can’t recall anything. No lost memories. He has no idea who this man is, and that’s fine, for now. Many people remember him from when he was a kid. He’s still just seventeen. 

They don’t exchange any words. There’s not much to say. 

Eventually, Neil comes out, and the stranger looks away. There’s a muffled conversation that takes place. Billy can’t make out the words. 

He looks at the car. Stares, carefully. He can’t see anyone else in there. 

Something feels really off about that. 

“Billy!” 

He’s quick on his feet, all instinct. Never disobeys. Neil’s steady eyes move with him. He juts his chin forward when Billy’s with them. “This is my colleague I told you about. Mr. Harrington.” 

Billy’s gaze meets the stranger’s. He’s got tired eyes. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Harrinton.” 

Their guest hums. “He’s grown.” 

Billy keeps his apathetic mask on. But he wants to know, wants to remember who this man is. 

“Quite a lot, yeah,” And then Neil turns to him, voice firm. “Go milk the cows, son. Don’t want ‘em to get feisty.” 

It’s the one chore that will keep him from looking, from hearing them. 

Something’s really off. 

“Yes, sir.” 

  


* * *

  


Billy’s almost done with milking all the cows in the barn when the car outside purrs back into life. He listens carefully, as it drives off. And then he waits, and waits, and the farm stays quiet. Neil doesn’t call for him. He can’t hear any extra voices. Nothing. 

It means he isn’t needed. Means Neil doesn’t want him right now. Possibly means they spared that kid the pain. The abuse. The punishments and the meat. 

Good for him. 

Billy keeps working throughout the day, trying to keep his mind off what might’ve happened. He feeds the chickens. Lingers with them for a while. He makes sure none of them are showing signs of sickness. Pets and holds them, now that Neil isn’t looking, can’t see how soft Billy’s gone. 

The goats are restless. Hungry and loud. Billy lingers with them too. Gives them a good rub. Watches them socialize, for a while. 

They have each other, and that’s what makes him upset. _Mildly_ upset. But it still makes him feel guilty and selfish. There’s a small part of him that hoped he would feel less lonely with someone else in the house. They’d suffer, sure, but not alone. 

He’s just as despicable as his father. 

Billy’s done at five. The sun’s been beating him all day, really rubbing the heat into his skin. He’s dizzy and tired. Decides he needs a break. He did everything that needed to be done. Neil will know. 

The TV is on when he steps into the house, shaking off his working boots near the door. He sees the top of Neil’s head resting on the back of the couch, but not his face. Nothing is said, and Billy assumes he might be asleep, or just doesn’t care enough to talk to his son. 

Dragging his feet, Billy makes his way to the bathroom. 

Passes the spare bedroom and — 

There’s someone there. 

Billy freezes on the spot, his eyes going wide. He takes a few steps backwards and — 

There he is, limp and motionless, on the bed, that boy from his dreams. Sunken eyes, chapped lips, brown hair, sickly pale skin. Right there, just how Billy first saw him. Right fucking there. 

His heart hammers hard against his chest. And suddenly, it feels like he’s zoomed in on something delicious. Prey. His mouth goes dry and salty. The buildup of phlegm makes it hard to swallow. There’s a thick lump in his throat, as he watches. Watches intently, the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s chest. Steve. 

Billy wants — 

“— tranquilizers.” 

Billy startles, snaps his head to the end of the hallway. Neil’s standing there, his eyebrows furrowed. Eyes hard. 

“What?” 

Neil’s jaw goes tight. He hates repeating himself. “He’s on tranquilizers. His father told me it was the only way to force him to behave.” 

Billy’s big, round eyes go back to - to Steve. He must be on some heavy shit if he hasn’t woken up yet. 

_Jesus Christ._

“Close the door, boy,” Neil sounds annoyed, impatient. Billy fumbles with the order. Still feels lightheaded. “And lock the door with the key.” 

“Y - Yes, sir.” 

Steve has nowhere to go now. 

Billy knows Neil glued down the window in the spare bedroom. And all the doors have locks installed. A house made for prisoners. 

  


* * *

  


He can’t sleep. It never comes to him. He’s not even tired. 

Steve hasn’t woken up yet. Billy thinks that’s his name, Steve. It’s gotta be. 

The night is still and cold, for once. A direct contrast from the heat of the day. His room is dark, because the new moon is high in the sky tonight. His mirror doesn’t gleam back at him. He can barely make out the shapes of the things he owns. 

He can’t stop thinking about that boy. Overwhelmed by a different kind of hunger. Billy’s unfamiliar with it. There’s something wrong with him. 

He wonders if the tranquilizers accidentally killed Steve. Maybe he’s dead in that room. Cold and lifeless. Maybe his brown eyes are vacant and stained right now. Neil would probably blame him first thing in the morning. Feed him slabs of human flesh, of Steve. 

Billy lies on his bed like that, waiting. For a sign. He needs to know. 

There are sounds of movement after a while, and Billy sits up quickly. Strains his ears and listens. They’re small, weak sounds. Definitely not Neil. Someone else is shuffling about, looking for something. Assessing their surroundings. Billy just - he knows, that’s him. 

He doesn’t expect the loud, pained wail that comes soon after. 

It’s a mix between a cry and a wretched scream. Anger and misery. Steve inhales and wails again. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

Billy waits for Neil to wake up. Waits patiently. Knows it won't be long now. Neil will beat Steve so hard Billy will hear the cracking of bones from this side of the house. It’s only a matter of time. Neil will have bloody knuckles tomorrow. 

But that doesn’t happen. 

Steve keeps at it, screams tearing apart his vocals. He starts banging on the locked door. Starts to sound heavy with hatred. Eventually, he’s not wailing anymore. He’s snarling at whoever hears him. _“Let me OUT!”_

Now, Billy gets it. That’s his punishment. Asking for help and getting none. 

_“You sick fuckin’ bastards, get me out of here!”_

Billy curls back on the bed, feeling numb. He should’ve prevented this. 

_“Please.”_

It takes an hour for Steve to give up, for his voice to become smaller. 

_“Just let me out.”_

The wailing stops, so does the screaming. Billy lies awake, all night. Listening. When it’s just Steve crying and crying. And even stays awake during the hours where Steve is dead silent. 

He should’ve prevented this. 


	2. baby, I'm ready, I'm ready, ready, ready to blow my lid off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is incredibly short compared to the first one. But I have two assignments pending and I'm really in a hurry. ): I promise the next one will be better.
> 
> Update: edited a bit in the first chapter where Neil tells Billy to jam a chair under the knob of a door.... that opens.... from the inside..... It literally made no sense. So now all the doors have locks installed because Neil is a control freak, hehe.

Billy woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn. 

He must’ve nodded off sometime throughout the night, after the sobbing next door stopped. He thought he’d heard the floor creak and groan before his eyelids became heavy. Thought he’d heard bare feet being dragged across the floor, in the other room. Sounds of languid activity, sometimes followed by intervals of still yet unnerving silence. 

Billy crossed the hallway on his way to the bathroom, heavy from lost sleep, when he saw the doorknob of the spare bedroom twist and turn. The door rattled. The knob squeaked. And then it all stopped, muffled footsteps fading away from that side of the room. Away from Billy. 

He thought of unlocking it. Of letting the boy in there out. It would’ve been so fucking easy. Driving away would’ve taken so little. 

But instead, he made breakfast for Neil, his twisted scumbag of a Dad. And they ate. Just the two of them. All the while the door rattled. 

Unable to ignore the background noise, Billy quietly asked, “Shouldn’t we feed him?” 

Neil snorted. “He's a junkie, son. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about food.” 

And for the whole day, Steve wasn’t fed. _Steve Harrington_ _–_ Neil later confirmed – was left to starve. 

* * *

But the screams are _brutal_ the next day. 

They’re raw and dry. Feral and frantic with desperation. Steve’s cries are heavily strained, outrage bleeding through every crack at the tail end of his voice. Billy knows what it’s like to scream from the gut. It pulls all the muscles in your neck and leaves your throat sore and aching. 

_“Let me the fuck OUT!”_

The house _vibrates_ with every scream. It’s jarring. 

He can tell Steve’s rabid from the mental torment of suffering through withdrawal. Billy wonders what it’s like to be hooked on something that bad. He imagines it’s the type of craving that can never be satiated. That Steve salivates just thinking about getting his next fix, like a dog foaming at the mouth. Only to want more. Until more is too much, and you end up like this. Tearing everything apart. Beating on doors. Billy hears broken knuckles. Knows the wet, sticky sound of fresh blood meeting cracked wood. 

_“You fuckin’ assholes_ _—”_

Hearing Steve makes him sick to his stomach. As Steve tears the guest bedroom apart, Billy fights back the urge to throw up on the shower drain, knowing Steve’s only there because Billy’s allowing it. Because he’s a little bitch and can’t stand up to the man in the living room. Can’t feed him to the hogs, like he’s thought of so many times. 

How fucking easy it would be, to hop into the car and never come back. 

Billy watches the steam rise around him, stares at his red toes and pink skin. The water’s too hot, and the air’s too humid to breathe right. His wet hair falls over his face like a curtain, strands dangling where he can see them. And it feels safe, to him. Normal. Taking too long in the shower. Thinking. 

_“_ _—_ _rot in hell_ _!”_

The scent in the air turns sharp and metallic; charged. It makes his hair stand on end. 

The lights flicker suddenly, just as Steve lets out another ragged scream, and Billy lifts his head to watch the lightbulb in the bathroom buzz and dim out, then brighten up again. It keeps flickering, sizzling even. Steve yells and cusses out and — 

The lightbulb pops. 

Billy’s left standing in the darkness, water still pouring over his shoulders. After screaming for so long, Steve's gone quiet, and his silence feels like noise and static. Wrong. 

“Billy, get your ass over here!” 

That’s Neil. There’s no mistaking him. 

Billy curses under his breath, searching blindly for the towel. “Comin’!” 

* * *

They end up having to replace all the lightbulbs in the house. Every single one, including the fuses. 

Neil’s none the wiser. He doesn’t _directly_ blame Billy for the busted lightbulbs, but he makes him work harder the day after. Hours of hoeing and raking soil under the scorching sun, to make it clear he’s irritated by the trouble he was put through. It’s better than getting beaten up, anyway. Or at least, better than eating raw liver for dinner. 

Billy’s left wondering what caused the electric overload in the house. It just – something doesn’t seem right. Nothing’s ever right. 

Especially what they’re doing to Steve, who’s been left unsupervised for yet another day. No food, no water, and no bathroom break. It’s like leaving a rat in a cage and watching it eat itself away. It's unlike anything Neil’s ever put him through. It’s vile. 

Steve cussed them out some in the morning. He sounded like a croaking frog. Voice gone and broken. He didn’t scream. Didn’t try to jostle his way through the door. He muttered something pathetic under his breath and made himself undetectable. Invisible. 

Breaking the mind. That’s what Neil’s doing. Breaking the mind first. 

* * *

Billy’s hauling water into the troughs in the barn when he hears the distinct sound of shattering glass, followed by the dull _thump_ of hard wood hitting the ground. 

He pauses, a bucket still in his hands, and waits. Hears the front door slam open. Yelling. 

Billy’s out of the barn just in time to watch Neil turn around the corner of the house. He disappears behind it, and the shouting continues, though distant. Something dangerous resonates in Neil’s voice – like it hasn’t in weeks. 

Growing nauseous, Billy follows. Slow, then quick. Drawing closer to the pained gasps and tearful whines, where the first thing he sees is the broken window. 

There are shards of glass still attached to the frame, but they’re stained red, smears of blood covering the bottom border of the outside wall. There’s a drawer that lies only a few feet away – must’ve been flung right through. 

And just in his crosshairs, there’s Neil on top of Steve, _choking_ him. 

Billy's heart almost leaps right out of his chest. 

“Dad,” It’s the first time, in years, that he raises his voice at his father. “Dad, stop, you’re killing him!” 

Neil doesn’t relent. He squeezes Steve’s windpipe, the muscles of his arms bulge and shift, and Steve gasps and gags as he claws at Neil’s forearms, drawing lines into bare skin. His face goes bright red, his eyes roll back — 

“DAD!” 

Finally, Steve draws in a sharp breath. He coughs wet and ugly when Neil relaxes his hands, heaves from deep within his chest before letting out a jagged sob. Bruises will blossom where Neil’s fingers are still tight around Steve’s throat, threatening to crush his trachea. 

Neil sneers down at him. Lips curling like some sort of bloodthirsty animal. He leans in close, right into Steve’s space. Ever so nasty. “You have some balls on you, kid. For a dead-beat addict.” 

There’s blood on his arms – on his shirt. Steve’s hands and wrists are sliced from the broken glass. 

Steve wheezes, then inhales. Billy watches hurt glaze over his eyes, before he hisses through clenched teeth, “ _Fuck_ you.” 

Neil’s expression twists into something darker, like he’s about to snap the boy’s neck. 

And Steve spits on his face. 

Billy feels himself holding in a breath, on instinct. Bracing himself for the worst, even when he’s not the one being held down. It feels like an out of body experience. Having endured the abuse for so long that watching Neil do this to someone else makes him want to crawl out of his skin. 

He considers, for a hot second, making a run for the toolshed. There’s a shiny, brand new axe in there he could easily drive into Neil’s skull, down to his tiny, peanut fucking sized brain. 

He runs out of time, and Neil smacks Steve across the face so hard the boy goes rigid. Shaking. 

Smacks him again, harder.

Then again.

Until Steve lets out a ragged whimper.

“You’ll learn to respect me, boy. Watch your goddamn mouth.” 

Neil pushes himself up on one knee, one hand twisted tight into Steve’s hair. Drags him with him, like a broken doll, and yanks so hard Steve must scramble to stand on his feet. All while Billy stands idle and useless. Scared to the bone. 

“Get the keys to the basement.” 

Billy swallows, head aching. “Dad —” 

“Don’t fucking test me, Billy,” Neil’s on him, breathing hot into his face. Like a bull. “You do as I say. Get the keys.” 

And Billy does. Never disobeys. 

They round the house where the cellar doors are, and he unlocks the heavy padlock securing the chains. He watches Neil pull Steve down the stairs, where it’s dark and damp and isolated. Where’s Billy’s been for long enough to know it reeks of dead rats and feces. 

When Neil comes back up, alone, they close the doors. Chains and all. No food. No water. 

Billy feels queasy when Neil suddenly pulls him by the collar of his shirt. His voice drips with thick hatred. “Let this be the last time you get in my way. Don’t question my orders ever again. I’ll lock you in there with him, Billy. I’ll leave you to _starve_ , you understand?” 

Billy nods, numb. 

“Yes what?” 

He feels sick. “Yes, sir.” 

“That’s what I thought,” and before he leaves, “Go clean his room. Smells like shit and vomit.” 

Neil wasn’t lying. 

* * *

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. Billy rolls and turns on his bed, unsettled by the lack of screaming and begging. He hates that he can’t hear Steve from here. Can’t know if he’s asleep or awake. 

His blue eyes travel up to the window, expecting that mysterious tapping to commence. To ask him to open it. To come out. 

He does anyway, packed with a water bottle he left on the bedside table, and the first aid kit he keeps under the mattress. He’s careful to avoid making unnecessary noise as he sneaks out of his bedroom, leaves his shoes behind to mute out his footsteps with bare feet. 

Neil kept the keys to the basement. But Billy remembers leaving the chains loose. Knows that if he pulls one of the doors up, there will be enough space for one arm to fit in. 

With grass tickling his toes, Billy bends down, quietly cracks open a door, and whispers, “Harrington?” 

It’s dark down there. Smells humid. Rotten. There’s no answer and he tries again, tests his luck by talking louder. “Harrington.” 

There’s some shuffling, some sniffling, and Steve’s hoarse voice finally echoes back to him. “What the fuck do you want?” 

He sounds horribly dehydrated. Weak. His voice is gone from all that screaming. “Got some water.” 

There’s a pause, then a creak. Billy senses Steve going up the stairs, until he sees him under what little light the moon provides. Sunken eyes. Pale skin. Brown irises like melted caramel. Looking straight at him. Through him. 

A look of recognition flashes over Steve’s face and he stares. Eyes big and intense. 

Billy swallows, holding the water bottle right above the gap between the doors. “Here.” 

Steve doesn’t move. Not for a while. But he eventually does. Sneaks a shaky hand out. His thin, bloody hand. 

Billy sees the crusty cuts along his forearm. From the broken glass. 

“Need help with that?” 

Steve snatches the bottle away, drinks the water first in one go. Breathing heavy through his nose. Swallowing loudly before he groans, done. 

Nearly three days of no water. He could’ve _died_ out here. 

"Why?” 

Billy’s snorts. “You seen yourself?” 

Steve throws the bottle right back at him. Almost shuffles out of sight – just barely. Billy can still see the outline of his face, the way his lips twist into a frown. "No, asshole, you think I see jack shit down here?” 

“Let me see your hands.” 

“Fuck you,” Steve’s face comes closer to the gap. Billy can see the bruises starting to form along his neck. The redness on his left cheek. “Go back to your room. Don’t want Daddy Dearest findin’ you out here. He’ll lock you up with the junkie as punishment. I bet you’d hate that, wouldn’t you, _Billy_?” 

Billy’s face goes stiff and cold. He gets it, he really does. The anger. The hurt. "I’m trying to help you.” 

Steve stares at him. Face blank. And then he laughs, breathy and humorless. His voice cracks. “Took you way too long, don’t you think?” 

"I —” 

“Save me the pity,” Steve’s eyes are red rimmed. Wet. His words rasp against his throat when he looks down at Billy’s hands, and sees the first aid kit. “I can’t — Fuck, I can’t do this shit with you right now. That’s not what I need. You know it’s not what I fuckin’ need.” 

Before Billy can say anything, Steve sinks back into the darkness. Down the stairs. 

Doesn’t say anything when Billy rests the door back down. Doesn’t beat on the wood. Doesn’t scream. 

* * *

Billy ends up going back the next night. 

It’s the guilt. The self-hatred. Knowing Steve’s right; he’s a coward. 

So, he pulls the cellar door open, sneaks in more water and sets it down on the first set of stairs. Some bagged food. His lighter. A joint. 

Steve doesn’t come up. Billy hears him gagging, but doubts anything is coming out of his stomach. He must be in pain. Sweating, shaking. 

“Harrington?” 

Steve heaves and retches. 

He doesn’t answer. 


	3. go fuck yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: edited the tags and added the TWs Horror and Drug Use. I realized after checking my notes that this is definitely something that had to be done, seeing as I'm changing ideas while I write this. Sorry if this is an inconvenience to anyone!
> 
> I also kinda didn't care enough to reread this before posting so if there's any mistakes I will be fixing them tomorrow or EVENTUALLY. I'm just so tired y'all

Billy feels as though he weighs a thousand pounds. He's in a foggy state of mind, and his thoughts come and go in disjointed fragments. His brain can't seem to decipher what they mean. His inner voice even slurs in his own head. 

The images in his mind float aimlessly, distorted. Shapeless and colorless. 

He feels drunk. Drowsy. As though he might be sinking into the bed and down beneath the earth. But there's no way for him to tell; his eyes are closed. He's falling. He's falling and it's dark. He's being deprived of having a thought. Of seeing.

Panic begins to settle in when trying to move becomes a futile effort. In fact, he can't feel his limbs at all. He's paralyzed. Frozen in place. Like an ancient fossil stuck in a rock. 

Sometimes, coming back from the void feels just like this. It’s a limbo. The in between. Where his body is on one side and his mind still on the other. It would usually take too long to come back to himself. And this time, he's not sure if he even will.

He feels like a vegetable. 

He wants to scream, and feels like he has no mouth. 

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

Billy doesn't register anything the first time. Everything seems to be out of reach. Too far away.

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

Nails on wood. Mice gnawing on the door.

Billy sits up with full force, eyes flying open as he scrambles to get a grip on the sheets. He’s snapping back to full consciousness with no preamble. Gasping and shaking like a leaf. His limbs feel light again, his body is grounded. He’s been given back his mind. His sight.

But the hues in his room are all wrong. Too bright, or too dim. It’s dark where light should be. The colors are misplaced.

He waits for his eyes to adjust to the new lighting, and for his heart to go a beat slower. He’s sweating. The bed feels damp underneath him. Yet the room is _freezing_ cold. Every breath he takes comes out in a fog.

His eyes zoom in on the door, and he sees a shadow moving behind the space above the floor.

 _Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._ Small teeth chewing through the surface. Mice gnawing on the door.

In a trance, he approaches slowly. Drags his bare feet across ice. Twists the handle. Pushes _—_

A horde of rats spill over like sand. Shrieking. Running in masses one over the other. And Billy, now capable of screaming, opens his mouth only to feel them crawling over him like hundreds of cockroaches, pushing their way past his teeth and clawing down the tunnel of his throat. Ripping away skin with their sharp nails and tiny hands. Gnawing at his organs as they did that door. Until he’s gagging on blood. Gagging on rodents.

 _Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._ Rats gnawing on his insides. Bursting through the holes behind his eyes.

Then he’s sitting up on the bed, again, heart beating fast, breathing as if he'd just surfaced from deep water. The pitter-patter of rain lingers in the background, soothing.

A dream, he realizes with horror. His first nightmare.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Billy still feels them an hour later. The rats. He’s starting to grow heavy with fear that they might be wiggling inside of him, pushing the bile in his stomach. The thought alone makes him shudder with disgust. It’s worse than any rotten meat Neil has forced him to eat. The concept of dreaming has shaken him to the core, and has left the most unpleasant sourness in his mouth. 

He chain smokes through a pack of cigarettes in his room, watching the rain slide down the glass of his window. His hands are still shaking. The nicotine does nothing to erase the imaginary taste of rat urine on his tongue.

So he goes to see Steve. Has built a habit of doing that every other night. The adrenaline rush of sneaking out of his room wore out long ago. Regardless of the ever present danger of Neil figuring it all out. Steve’s allowed to eat and drink now during the day. Billy only visits when he feels the way he feels now.

But it’s not every night that Steve’s there to receive him. In fact, for the most part, Steve avoids him. Leaves Billy staring into the dark depths of the basement. He’ll be more on edge some nights than others. Like a wild animal pacing in a cage. Succumbs to the symptoms of withdrawal until it consumes him and he falls apart all on his own. Other nights, he’ll antagonize Billy until he drives him away. Will straight up tell Billy to fuck off if he’s _really_ not feeling it. 

Billy’s not sure why he keeps showing up.

“Harrington?” 

He thinks it might be a trick of the mind, but he can _feel_ Steve breathing down there. He chalks it up to the fact that, well, it’s not like Steve could possibly be anywhere else. Billy might be conditioned to knowing he’ll always be here.

There’s mud on his boots. His face is wet even when he’s got his raincoat on. Growing impatient, Billy makes an offer he knows will spark a reaction. “Wanna get high?”

It’s a fucked up trick ( who would do that to an addict? ) but it never fails to give him results. Steve’s voice trembles and echoes above the sounds of the beating rain when he answers. “Is it white or green?”

“Green.”

Steve sounds disappointed, but not entirely uninterested. “Y’know, you gotta live a little.”

“Yea? It sure doesn’t look like you’re living much.”

There’s a pause before Billy hears the basement stairs creaking. Right below the cellar doors, between the crack that allows them to see each other, Steve’s face emerges from the darkness. He’s deadly pale. Looks almost anemic. And still he smiles, slow and suggestive. “If you let me out,” he starts, licking his chapped lips. “I would show you a _real_ good time.”

It’s not the first time Steve does this. It’s for sure not the first time it _almost_ works. Steve can see right through him. Billy knows he does. Sees his thirst for recklessness and his hunger for _—_

“But you won’t,” Steve continues, and his face falls dramatically. He’s got this mean look in his eyes now. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Daddy.”

“Seriously _—_ ”

“It’s a shame, y’know. A real waste,” Steve sighs, propping his chin on the palm of a hand. He must be sitting on the stairs. “There’s _nothing_ like the first high and you’re missing out on purpose.”

Billy bristles at him. “I don’t have piles of cash to blow through, Harrington.”

This seems to give Steve something to think about. “Well, amp it up, would you? I’m losing my fuckin’ mind down here.” He grows quiet, though not for long. He drinks in the sight of Billy, and changes the subject entirely. “You look like shit.”

The irony. “And you look dazzling. Wanna tell me somethin’ I don’t know?”

Steve hums, but he doesn’t fire back. 

Now that the rain has stopped, Billy bends down to light the joint he had tucked behind his ear. As wisps of smoke curl around them, Steve openly looks right at him. Watching the contraband burn between Billy’s lips. Eyes lazy and dark. As though contemplating something. 

Billy passes it to him after a few drags. Steve accepts the offer.

“Had a nightmare,” Billy finds himself confessing, figures it wouldn’t hurt to tell a stranger something so trivial. “ _Mountains_ of rats, tearing into my fuckin’ throat.”

Steve gives him a Cheshire smile that’s on the verge of being a little too big for his face. “They’re not so bad. I see them down here all the time.”

Again, Billy feels guilty for that. Even when he’s not the one keeping Steve locked up.

“Don’t look so depressed,” Steve’s handing him back the joint, the shaking of his hands less pronounced. “I know why I’m here.”

Billy remembers Neil’s words. _Dead-beat addict_.

“What’s it like?”

“Withdrawing?” And Steve, he just smiles. Though there’s nothing sunny about it. “Most of the time I just wanna snap all my bones in half,” but after a second, he breathes in. “Your old man beating me was the best relief I’ve gotten so far.”

In a fucked up way, Billy can relate to that. He’s woken up too many times with the craving to feel numb and bruised.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Falling asleep feels a whole lot like sinking underwater. 

Billy knows no other way to describe it. It’s like that dull hum that vibrates within the canal of your ears when you’re completely submerged. Like being below the water level of a pool. Alone. Like being weightless and still. Immersed in silence.

Word has it that you close your eyes and wake up the next day. That you dream and forget. But Billy remembers all in the void. As empty as it is.

Billy remembers Steve. Vividly. The shape of his nose and the curve of his lips. Remembers the way he’d looked up at Billy with half-lidded eyes. Lifeless eyes. It’s the feature Billy obsesses over the most. The way his gaze is vacant. Not all there. Billy often sees it when he looks in the mirror. The eyes of a person who’s been stripped of everything. 

Of all the strangers Billy’s ever met, Steve’s the first to feel familiar. 

The first to have been in the void.

The mystery behind the origins of that place might be what fuels Billy’s fixation with Steve. They share a secret with no meaning. The void is a hollow space with nothing that functions. There’s nothing to see and nothing to do. An empty room serves no purpose until you put something in it. And for Billy, having company might do just that.

It would turn the void into a source of communication. It would mean that Billy could look for Steve, if he wished to. Could look for those dead, brown eyes. 

And he did. 

He feels the change in atmosphere before he sees him, and it’s unlike the feeling of being deep underwater. The void feels less still. Billy can feel it pulsating around them. Breathing. Alive.

“This is the second time you stalk me.”

Steve sounds amused, but his expression reads otherwise. There’s a nonchalant attitude there. A look of pure boredom that suggests a lack of any real interest. 

But he watches Billy _so_ intently. 

When Billy moves, Steve’s wary eyes follow. 

Steve sits at a guarded distance from him, his legs crossed, and his shaking hands tucked carefully in the space between his thighs. He looks disheveled, seems a little unstable; what you’d expect from someone that’s been imprisoned in a basement for nearly a week now, surviving off scraps. Only because Neil felt generous enough.

“I didn’t mean to the first time,” Billy says, watching Steve watching _him_. “Didn’t know you back then.”

A flicker of curiosity crosses Steve’s eyes. “So you came looking for me?” His voice smooths over, like honey. “How sweet.”

Billy doesn’t know if the sentiment is genuine, but he knows it irritates him almost instantly. They’re talking through a link that defies all logic. The kind of shit you read in a science-fiction novel. It’s ridiculously absurd how their conversation is even taking place. Such a concept should be inexplicable.

Yet Steve has the nerve to look annoyed, of all things.

“Yeah,” Billy lets the disappointment bleed right out of him. “Last time you were pretty fucked up.”

Steve’s face shifts slowly, like he’s tasted something sour. “Careful there, buckaroo.”

Even when silence stretches between them, the air feels like static.

It looks like Billy’s struck a nerve, which is fine. It means they’re even. And it makes him feel less stupid for being only a few steps behind on whatever the hell the void is. He disregards the change in attitude. The menacing glint in Steve’s eyes.

“Why were you there?” He asks, anyway. “What is this place?”

Steve seems to be thinking it over. A frown curls the corner of his lips, then flattens out after a while. He sounds bitter. “Fuck do I know. I hate it here,” reluctantly, after a pause, he adds, “Asking never did me any favors. Who’d believe me, anyway.”

Billy raises his eyebrows. “You told someone?”

Slowly, Steve gives him a tight-lipped smile. It feels sad. “I suggest you keep this between us. It’s more fun, that way. Y’know?”

It sounds like a warning. Something to watch out for. _They won’t believe you_. 

“I don't think this a coincidence,” Steve continues, and when Billy less expects it, he asks, “Do you believe in fate, Billy?”

Billy. Nice and friendly. Not _Billy,_ like when Neil sneers at him.

He thinks about it. About the odds of meeting someone you met in a dream. About how he knew Steve’s name before Steve got here. Knew how much he loved needles and heroin before Neil told him so. “I don’t know.”

Steve hums, then squints. Billy feels like he’s been caught in a lie. “You ought to.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They talked about everything and nothing at all for as long as the void allowed them. In a place where time doesn’t exist, it felt as though they talked for days. 

Steve’s company was only mildly unsettling. Although still a little bit off. Billy asked him about that first time they crossed paths, again, and Steve gave him a forlorn stare.

“I overdosed,” he confessed, unfazed by the memory. “And you were just there, laughing at me.”

Billy felt that pang of guilt again.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next day, Neil let Steve out of the basement.

It’s not hard to tell when someone’s been broken down and reduced to nothing. All the energy and anger that used to radiate off Steve is now gone, replaced with something dismal. It reminded Billy of the first time he killed, skinned and ate a rabbit. The psychological abuse eats away your mind. Leaves behind a skeleton and a suit made of flesh.

Steve stepped out of the basement and Billy saw the haunted look in his big, empty eyes. He held himself with fear. Hands on his elbows, arms wrapped across his stomach. But when he looked at Neil, it all shifted and twisted into something else entirely. With Neil, he looked like a murderer with a knife thirsty for blood. He stared and didn’t blink. He kept his face neutral yet murderous. Billy knew that look. He’s worn it before.

When Steve was allowed to shower, Billy listened carefully, and heard him crying, and crying. He sobbed, ugly and strained. He heaved, then gagged. Vomited. 

Now, he sits quietly in his room. His window nailed down.

In person, outside the void, Steve’s less in control, more unpredictable. He shakes. He bounces his knee. He scratches his skin. Nibbles on his lower lip. His eyes skim and wander, nervous. Always on edge. He’s quick to snap, quick to break.

He’s different, and Billy catches on the rapid mood swings and changes in personality. It’s like flipping a switch on and off. Except Billy’s never sure which one it’s going to be.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Neil told him to clean up whatever filth Steve left behind in the basement, and Billy went in with a flashlight, already dreading the inevitable. Knowing he was bound to find something gross, or at the very least, something unpleasant.

What he found, however, was a scattered trail of dead rats.

The sight sent adrenaline flowing through his veins like a fish in a river, but he couldn’t move a single muscle, not even to scream. The absolute horror completely paralyzed him, and the more he thought about running away, the more he felt discouraged and utterly terrified.

They’d been gnawed on. Eaten. Missing big chunks, as though someone had taken a big bite out of their bellies, or chewed off their heads. Some weren't even recognizable – but small heaps of guts and bloody, white fat.

He found splatters of black goo all over the hard floor. Something that looked like motor oil. The smell was _foul_. Reeked of stomach acid and ammonia.

It had been at least a day since Steve was removed from this place. The odds that it was him were about as good as a coin toss. 

Steve couldn’t have been this hungry. Couldn’t have possibly devoured rows of live rats.

Billy vomited all the contents in his stomach.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Steve’s at the dinner table with them, seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. 

Billy’s been side eyeing him, hard, watching Steve leave his plate completely untouched. Billy's been playing around with his own food. Wasn't even hungry when he cooked for them. Had thought too long and hard about the mangled rat carcasses he found only hours ago.

Alongside him, Neil’s eyes are fixed on Steve, too. But he exudes an ill temper.

Billy hasn't told him about what he found. He wasn’t even sure how to explain what he’d seen, or what his suspicions are. He remembered that warning Steve gave him about how some things are better left unsaid. Though now those words are starting to sink in differently.

"Eat."

With his chin tilted down, Steve's eyes slowly lift towards Neil's face. He's sporting some heavy dark circles. The bruises on his neck are faded and green. The life in his gaze is somewhat faint. There’s a defiance there Billy wishes would diminish.

 _"No,"_ he answers, tone flat and daring. 

It's like that day Steve spit on Neil’s face. Billy's holding his breath, waiting for Neil's patience to snap like a rubber band.

“Excuse me?”

Steve taunts him with a sneer. “I said _no_ , old man. I’m not eating this shit. It’s gross.”

Billy’s _almost_ offended. Except.

He doesn’t think it’s about the food. Steve hasn’t been giving him the time of day, but when it’s Neil, he’ll square up anywhere, anytime. He did it at the stables, where Neil made sure to smack him for refusing to shovel horse shit all evening.

And Billy watches it happen again in slow motion – the moment Neil reaches out to grab Steve’s resting hand. But Steve’s faster. Angrier. Stands and his chair flies backwards, falling. 

“ _Don’t_ touch me.” 

Billy gets chills down his spine just looking at him. 

Steve’s voice no longer sounds like his own. His face is contorted in such a way that he almost looks demonic. It’s rigid, his jaw clamped tight. He’s grinding his teeth as he jabs the air with a pointed finger, his eyes narrowed and set hard. 

“Don’t you _dare_ touch me.”

He storms off like a child, slams a door behind him, and Billy appreciates how, for the first time in his life, something grave crosses Neil’s face. Concern?

“Take him hunting tomorrow.”

Billy blinks himself back to reality, trying to find a will to speak. “It’s not _—_ ”

“Did I stutter?”

“No, sir.”

“Take him hunting tomorrow,” Neil repeats, focusing his attention back on the mashed potatoes. “And don’t come home until you’ve killed something.”

Billy knows exactly what that means. Has gone through that same sequence way too many times.

“Yes, sir.”


	4. i've got work to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. This chapter was supposed to be waaaaay longer. I had an outline that went further into details. I was hoping to give you guys a clearer image of what's going on in this fic, but... looks like the suspense it's just going to keep dragging on forever ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I'm having issues with my schedule and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to update soon. Additionally, I might go directly into the 2 month hiatus I spoke about, for personal reasons. I assure you I don't plan on abandoning this fic, but if you want to stay updated you can ... *cough cough* follow me on tumblr. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support you've been giving me so far!
> 
> Update: added the Enemies To Friends To Lovers tag because after this chapter I realized that's most definitely what's going on here

Steve is still high-strung the next morning. His face is pale, stone cold. Lips set on a firm, straight line. He’s jittery when he’s not moving, and intense when he’s on the borderline of acting out.

There’s something  _ wrong _ with him. Something lies dead and rotten behind his faded eyes. Though Billy can’t pinpoint  _ what _ , exactly. It reeks, but he can’t find it. Like food that goes bad in the fridge. A mud-covered carcass lying in the underbrush. 

Perhaps he's always been like this – Steve. Hollow. Angry. He's damaged goods. A music box playing off key. Maybe,  _ really _ , he's only just getting worse. What Neil does to him is like watching someone beat a broken TV, hoping the colors on screen will go back to normal. 

He came in screaming something fierce from the very first day. Loud and unforgettable. Yet Billy knows little to nothing about him. Neil keeps the details in smoke and mirrors. Upholds himself to unusual levels of secrecy. He talks about Steve like he’s a rumor, gossip being told under the table. 

Billy wouldn't put it past Neil to be knee deep in some shady fucking business. What are the odds, anyway. Who gets paid to do this? By  _ who?  _

Steve is just the same when it comes to being vague. Keeps to himself. He clearly doesn’t like Billy either.

They met on the hallway, an hour ago, just as Billy was exiting his room. Steve's piercing stare struck him like a leash. Mean. Dangerous. Before Steve fucking  _ checked his shoulder _ on his way to the bathroom. Made sure to slam the door behind him, so that the whole damn frame rattled in his wake.

Billy felt his chest tighten into a knot like a cramp. Felt his heart beating fat and heavy, and the quiet rage that rose like a tide. He fought the primeval instinct to rend Steve limb to limb right there, in the hallway.

With Neil within earshot, he didn't. Billy's only seventeen, but he's not a kid anymore. Can't pick up petty fights under his father's radar. Not with someone who's just like him.

But today, there's only one noticeable difference in Steve. As they're having breakfast, engulfed in uncomfortable silence, he  _ makes _ an effort to eat, despite the fit he threw the day before. To Billy, the progress, although a clear indication of  _ something _ , is almost insignificant. Steve has a bite out of a slice of toasted bread. Chews slowly and deliberately, as though he were judging something he's never tasted before. And then sets it back down on his plate. Nose wrinkled, mouth frowning. Unhappy and confused. Disappointed. 

It's just a slice of buttered toast, Billy tells himself. How bad can it be?

Neil turns a hard, wary eye on them. He's done eating. Has work to do. Has never had an affinity for being a babysitter. He sets the keys of the pickup truck on the table and leaves without a word. A man of authority. 

Billy always does the dishes. Takes on the daily chores. Dread sinks in knowing Neil told him to take Steve hunting. It's what the keys are for. But Billy’s always been the one at the receiving end of Neil’s wrath. He’s  _ never  _ helped him punish someone else. 

Neil is not nearly as violent as he is controlling. He's a skilled abuser. Makes you feel as though you are your own poison. Everything you do is your own doing; the consequences you suffer are your own fault. It's why he knows Billy won't pick up those keys and leave. He always comes back. Sick with guilt. He has nowhere else to drop dead. He'll rather die here, where it's familiar. Where he gets to live under a roof as long as he does what he's told.

But not Steve though. Neil hasn't got him on a leash. 

It's by pure chance that Billy catches the desperate glint in Steve's bloodshot eyes. The first telltale sign of sleep deprivation. Of someone who spent their night thinking. Plotting.

Everything happens too fast. Steve’s boring into those keys, and out of impulse, Billy snatches them off the table before Steve gets a chance to. That pale, pale hand lands flat on the wooden surface where the keys no longer are, too loud for comfort. 

Steve was only a second too late. He looks rabid, too. Ready to  _ lose _ it. He looks up through his eyelashes, and they stare at each other long and hard, tensions high.

Steve's voice leaks with venom when he speaks. "Give me the keys."

Billy averts his gaze to the kitchen window, sees Neil walking right into the barn. He won't be able to hear them. It's just the two of them now. 

He's quick on his feet when Steve lunges forward. Billy's chair squeaks behind him when he stands, fist tight. Steve stands too, leaning over the edge of the table. Like he's  _ waiting _ on Billy to move whichever way. 

Now on edge, Billy scoffs, his heart pounding. "Not a chance in hell."

“Just – just give me the damn keys.”

“No.”

“Give me the fuckin’ keys, Billy.” Something mean and scary crosses Steve's face, and Billy feels like he should run. Like there's an imminent threat right in front of him.

They could leave. The both of them. Neil tore down his Camaro long ago, to keep him from going anywhere. If they take the pickup truck, Neil wouldn't be able to follow them.

But.

“I can’t. I – I can’t let you go," It sickens him how self aware he is. "Dad would  _ kill _ me."

“ _ Please _ ," There's faint hope in Steve's eyes. “I need to get out of here. I can’t stand another day in this place. Give me the keys —"

“You can’t leave —"

“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” And that's it. The moment the bomb goes off. Steve turns putrid with rage, and bright red with heat. “Fuck!”

Billy's stomach drops the moment he sees Steve's eyes land on the sink, then the dishes. Searching. Frantic. He pulls a drawer open, and retrieves a  _ knife _ that gleams under the morning sun outside, sharp and clean.

Billy gets that rush of adrenaline that's activated by the fight-or-flight instinct. He squares up real quick. Feels the palm of his right hand sweat around the keys. It all feels like a fever dream. "Drop that,  _ right now _ ."

He swears Steve's vice grip goes even tighter around the handle. The knife moves with his shaking hand, but it doesn't loosen up. "Give me the goddamn keys."

Billy hisses through clenched teeth. "Drop the fuckin' knife. Are you  _ insane _ ?"

"Maybe," Steve licks his lips, murderous hunger in his eyes. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm  _ nuts _ . A complete basket case, right? A junkie?" Billy stays silent. "What's your verdict?"

"I don't think you'll do it," Billy blurts out, eyes on the knife. "I don't think you'll try to kill me."

"Yeah?" 

Steve steps away from the table, slow, like a stalking wild cat. With every step he takes closer, Billy takes one back. Keeping distance between them, especially now that they stand face to face. "You think I wouldn't slice your throat right now?"

His stare is deadly. Skin ghostly white. Damp. Sweaty.

He's not right in the head. Can't be. 

Billy laughs, incredulous. There's no humor in it. He almost sounds  _ scared _ . "Fuck off, Harrington."

And Steve grins at him.

He looks deranged. 

"That's easy," he purrs, lifting the knife higher, until it's aimed directly at Billy’s nose. "Just drop the keys. I'll let you keep your pretty face if you do."

Billy can hear his pulse banging in his ears, feels sweat dripping down his back. He tries to collect saliva in his otherwise dry mouth. Swallows thick thinking about that knife stabbing the space between his eyes. Steve’s not bluffing. “Look, you don’t —”

Before he can finish his sentence though, inexplicably, his fingers pry open all on their own. By sheer force, the keys go  _ flying _ all the way across the room. They rush by in a blink. Glass shattering as they pierce through a window, leaving a hole that makes the wind that blows in whistle. 

Silence hangs in the air for a suspended moment, the sounds of their rhythmic breathing mixing together. Steve looks confused.  _ Slightly _ alarmed when his glazed eyes land back on Billy, who’s frozen in place, staring down at the clammy skin of his bare hand. Steve regards him for a minute, thoughtful, and then dashes out the door, quick on his feet.

_ The keys. _

Still overwhelmed, still wondering what the fuck just happened, Billy goes right after him. Neil's going to beat him black and blue. Do him in. Bury him six feet under if Steve leaves with that goddamn truck. 

Billy tackles him to the ground at the foot of the porch. 

“ _ Get off me! _ ” Steve snarls, his grip on the knife nearly slipping. He twists a bit on his ribs, aiming the cutting edge towards Billy’s arms. But he gets a good hold of Steve’s wrist, wrestles him with enough strength to keep him pinned below his weight. 

For someone who’s supposed to be malnourished and weak, Steve’s stronger than he looks. He strains, puts on a good fight. Makes Billy struggle to such a degree that he feels his pending death looming right over his shoulder, waiting to spill the blood from his throat.

_ “Billy!” _

He looks past the crown of Steve’s ruffled hair and spots Neil gaining on them. He’s running, feet pounding along the dirt road. But not quick enough to keep Steve from taking his advantage, twisting the knife in his hand just right to slice through the skin of Billy’s forearm. 

Billy shouts in pain. Sees red,  _ everywhere _ . On his hands, on Steve, on their clothes. 

He flinches back, ready to scramble away. Watches Steve lean on his knees, forward, knife high above his head. Eyes wild. Dark. Empty.

And Neil’s there, stabbing  _ something _ on the back of Steve’s neck. 

It all happens so slow that Billy forgets where he is. A look of dread flickers over Steve’s face, like he’s realizing something  _ horrible _ . Before he collapses on his chest all the same, needle peeking through his hair.

Billy breathes heavy, hyperventilating. Eyes glued on the needle, trying to make out what the contents could’ve been. He’s never seen anything like it. Neil has never —

“What happened?” 

Billy blinks. He feels the panic begin, the tension growing on his face and limbs as his mind replays the last few minutes. His breathing becomes more rapid, more shallow. Eyes scanning Steve’s motionless body. In seconds, he’s trembling, salty tears sliding down his cheeks.

Neil scowls. “Billy.”

Billy looks up at his father, seeing Neil’s mouth remain an uncharacteristic grim line amid his stubble. He’s not concerned, but angry.

Wrapping a hand around the open wound on his forearm, he gasps, “He – He tried to  _ kill me.  _ The keys —”

He can’t finish a single sentence.

Neil looks annoyed and upset. Though thankfully, he doesn’t take it out on Billy. At least he’s not planning to right away. He kneels down to carry Steve in his arms, throwing the boy over his shoulder like a ragdoll. “Clean up. I’ll take care of him.”

Billy frowns, deep and confused. Through his ragged breathing, he tries to speak again. “But the needle —”

“ _ Clean. Up. _ ” Neil’s voice is firm and hard.  _ Daring _ Billy to ask further questions. He doesn’t. 

Neil’s walks inside the house with Steve, leaving Billy on his own. Mind racing. 

He’s _ never  _ seen that fucking needle.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [wholeshebangs](wholeshebangs.tumblr.com)


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